“I am not sure of anything, I know nothing. Can you imagine that I don’t even know the date of my own death?”

If I were asked to name the chief event in my life, I should say my father’s library.

The man who acquires an encyclopedia does not thereby acquire every line, every paragraph, every page, and every illustration; he acquires the possibility of becoming familiar with one and another of those things.

A writer needs loneliness, and he gets his share of it. He needs love, and he gets shared and also unshared love. He needs friendship. In fact, he needs the universe. To be a writer is, in a sense, to be a day-dreamer – to be living a kind of double life.

When I wake up, I wake to something worse. It’s the astonishment of being myself.

Do you want to see what human eyes have never seen? Look at the moon. Do you want to hear what ears have never heard? Listen to the bird’s cry. Do you want to touch what hands have never touched? Touch the earth. Verily I say that God is about to create the world.

When you reach my age, you realize you couldn’t have done things very much better or much worse than you did them in the first place.

Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing, the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting.

I do not write for a select minority, which means nothing to me, nor for that adulated platonic entity known as ‘The Masses’. Both abstractions, so dear to the demagogue, I disbelieve in. I write for myself and for my friends, and I write to ease the passing of time.

The tango is a direct expression of something that poets have often tried to state in words: the belief that a fight may be a celebration.

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

I believe books will never disappear. It is impossible for it to happen. Of all man’s diverse tools, undoubtedly the most astounding are his books… If books were to disappear, history would disappear. So would man.

I thought that a man can be an enemy of other men, of the moments of other men, but not of a country: not of fireflies, words, gardens, streams of water, sunsets.

The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things.

When I feel I’m going to write something, then I just am quiet and I try to listen. Then something comes through. And I do what I can in order not to tamper with it.

The central fact of my life has been the existence of words and the possibility of weaving those words into poetry.

You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened.

Once the object has been constructed, I have a tendency to rediscover in it, transformed and displaced, images, impressions, facts which have deeply moved me (often without my knowing it).

For we can only know that we know nothing, and a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

The only history that matters is the history we know.

The characteristic of scientific progress is our knowing that we did not know.

Some days I wake up and all I feel are the fractures in the flesh that covers the only me I’ve ever known.

Time, as is well known, sometimes flies like a bird and sometimes crawls like a worm, but human beings are generally particularly happy when they don’t notice whether it’s passing quickly or slowly.

If I get to know somebody, I’ll open up, but other than that I like to sit back and observe things.

I hate and I love. And if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two.